


mortality is found in the flesh of your sins

by novrik



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol, Angry Miya Atsumu, Anxiety, Background Relationships, Canon Compliant, Clubbing, Communication, Egregious Use of Metaphors, Explicit Language, Implied Sexual Content, Lack of Communication, Light Angst, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mysophobia, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sexual Tension, Tension, Unsettling Thoughts, assholes to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27715792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novrik/pseuds/novrik
Summary: dickhead one, sakusa kiyoomi. dickhead two, miya atsumu. neither understand how to communicate.Pray tell, why are you drawn to him?Are you drawn to him in the way he looks beautiful even when crying?When his eyes are red, shiny tears streaking down, lips quivering, is he beautiful?
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 33
Kudos: 185





	mortality is found in the flesh of your sins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mirabilis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirabilis/gifts).



> cw: tagged mildly dubious consent because sks is under the influence of alcohol during a one night stand; they say some pretty fucked up shit to each other; sakusa gets a weirdo fan slash borderline stalker; lmk if u want anything else warned
> 
> happy birthday to my number one writing inspiration. sar, this one's for you:)
> 
> there's a line (two lines) i used in here that come from this art on [twitter](https://twitter.com/hawberries_/status/1309119748471435268?s=20)
> 
> a lovely thank you to my [beta](https://twitter.com/angelz_dust)

Sakusa is always first in the locker room, first to leave, but today is just one of those days where he opens his eyes, and he’s tired, he’s so tired, and everything is just not going right, so he’s subject himself to the horrors of collapsing on the bench, clean towel draped across his head as he leans back against the lockers. If he closes his eyes, he can see the entirety of today’s match in his mind from start to end with a play/pause button and the rewind/fast forward option. Every play is slowed down as Sakusa envisions the entirety of the court from Shouyou diving for a dig to the opposing middle blockers. He closes his eyes, and the rush of blood comes back, the adrenaline racing through his heart, the set is perfect, the set is always perfect from Atsumu, and Sakusa whips his wrist at just the right angle. In his heart, Sakusa knows it’s guaranteed point, but when he falls back down to the earth, there the ball is, high in the air. Time slows, and he forces himself to move as he’s vaguely aware of everyone rushing for the ball. But even as Shouyou extends a fist, the ball drops, bouncing across the hardwood floor, and with it, the million little pieces of Sakusa’s shattered heart.

A bad day, a bad game, nothing more Sakusa can do about it besides to let go and wait for the rematch. Everyone else has already left, the locker room having been more silent than usual, the tension from the end of the game spilling over. Just a couple of _excuse me_ ’s here and there as they skirt around each other. Sakusa resigns himself that he too should leave. He lets out a breath, and leans forward to get up. He’s got his things packed and ready to go when he can hear something in the restroom.

He stops in the middle of the lockers between benches to strain his ears. It’s muffled, but someone is definitely crying. Ah, who could it be? Bokuto has gotten better with his moods since high school, but he had left quietly unlike his usual self. Shouyou seemed a little pensive, Meian patting his shoulders as they exited. The rest of his teammates weren’t any louder, and as Sakusa goes through the list of who’s left, he peeks into the restroom stalls.

Atsumu is hunched over one of the sinks, one hand gripping the rim, the other muffling his mouth. Sakusa stops in his path, no longer sure of what to do. Miya Atsumu is not meant for tears, he is not meant for red rimmed eyes and a snot filled nose. He is not meant for the posture of defeat, head bowed in submission. Sakusa finds it all so surreal; Miya Atsumu, who steps onto the court like he is king, who forces others to postulate in front of him, who commands the ball with ease and grace, stands in front of him, small and defeated.

“Miya?” Sakusa calls out, loud enough to break the silence but low enough not to startle.

The setter turns his head. He looks like shit. “Fuck off.”

“Drown in self pity then,” Sakusa sneers. “Can’t even ask if you’re okay.”

“Didn’t ask fer yer help. Leave me alone.”

“And leave you to fuck yourself up? C’mon Miya, the least you can do is wash up.”

Atsumu shifts himself up to a standing position. “Since when did _you_ start carin’ huh?”

Since always. Since now.

“You’re my setter,” Sakusa says simply.

“So?” Atsumu snaps in return. “That’s never stopped ya before.”

Sakusa steps forward, skin prickling with a sense of hesitation but he steels his nerves, and with a thumb, he brushes along Atsumu’s cheek. “You’re still crying,” he says softly. 

(What is he doing?)

Atsumu grits his teeth. “What’s it ta you? Ya don’t care, never have.” He doesn’t stop crying.

(What is Sakusa doing?)

“Miya,” he breathes out, “you are not okay.”

“I should’ve played better.”

Sakusa knows Miya Atsumu is a perfectionist. He has witnessed the late night practices on more than one occasion, often joining in himself. It is simply a fact that Atsumu pushes himself beyond the brink of what most people would consider normal. Sakusa isn’t blind, he has eyes, he can see how much of a god Atsumu is, evenly tanned over toned thighs and calves, blinding white smiles against the golden glint in his eyes, he’s built like Adonis, but right now, Atsumu is just a mere mortal, having lost to the limits of human flaws.

“Then _I_ should’ve played better because your sets are perfect. They always are.” Sakusa’s hand hasn’t moved from Atsumu’s face.

“Don’t say things ya don’t mean,” Atsumu says, words punctured with ragged breathing. He tears himself from Sakusa’s touch, and he leaves the locker room in a fit of quiet irritation.

Tell me, what were you thinking?

What was the point, what was the purpose of reaching out? You’ve never reached out before, why start now? You close yourself off, and yet you expected him to open up.

Fleeting reminders of a boy you once knew, barely knew, across the court, who was sure of himself in the way sixteen year old boys are. The grit of teeth in hopes of pursuing his ambitions to the ends of this world. It is because the flame you see in the amber hue of his eyes intrigues you, because behind the overly confident snark there is something else, something you cannot place. The urge to stretch your hands and trail a finger down his chest to poke right where his heart is and find out what lies within his core is more compelling than your need to scrub your hands till they’re raw.

Sakusa finds that thought frightening, his desires waxing, and he is not at peace until he is under a steaming hot shower at home.

Pray tell, why are you drawn to him?

Are you drawn to him in the way he looks beautiful even when crying?

When his eyes are red, shiny tears streaking down, lips quivering, is he beautiful?

The void is gaping wide, and the only thing fulfilling it is your deep seated carnal desire.

//

They have not talked to each other since the whole thing happened, but then, they never talk to each other. This is their normal where Sakusa and Atsumu will compete on the court but act like complete strangers in the packed filled streets of the city. He will smirk and laugh at Atsumu for flubbing a serve, and he will walk away once he exits those gym doors. There are no differences in their usual routine, no one can pick up the underlying tension.

Is there underlying tension?

Sakusa would say yes because ever since, he cannot get the image of a tear filled Miya Atsumu out of his head, he cannot relieve himself of the feeling of soft skin wet to the fingertips, he cannot let it go. The man is forbidden fruit, he shouldn’t be looking, shouldn’t be touching, and yet here Sakusa is, waking up in the middle of the night with only flashes of glistening eyes and supple lips to remember from his dreams. There is no comprehensible reason for his desires, just that he wants to know what Atsumu tastes like.

And if Sakusa is Eve, if he takes a bite, what then? Perhaps, he is a little afraid of the knowledge he will gain.

Or is Miya Atsumu Pandora’s box? Sakusa does not consider himself foolish enough to open the lid lest the horrors come out. (That’s cruel, he tells himself, for thinking Miya Atsumu could hold such nightmares).

But intimacy is fear, a fear Sakusa has no inclination on alleviating.

Besides, Atsumu doesn’t seem bothered, he shows no desire to talk, no penchant for a chat. Sakusa observes like he always does, from the corner of his gaze, and there Atsumu is, glory behold in the flesh of a mortal. He doesn’t understand, the two images of Atsumu he’s seen are stark opposites, directly clashing on a spectrum. Except Sakusa should understand, Atsumu is both forbidden fruit and a Pandora’s box, shiny and golden on the outside, perfect to the human eye (disregarding his piss blond hair), only to encase a hidden trove of secrets, be it good or bad. Sakusa debates himself on opening said enigma.

Is it worth opening?

He can remember Atsumu leaning into his touch without thinking, and then the instant the setter realizes, he stops, neither moving away nor moving closer. The closeness makes his mouth go dry.

“Miya,” Sakusa calls out, the rest of the gym quietly dying down in curiosity, “let’s go for dinner.”

The pierce of Atsumu’s gaze unsettles Sakusa, spilt ichor pooling onto his lap. He’s on the floor finishing up his stretches, Atsumu across on the opposite side of the courtline standing basked in the sinking light of the setting sun. He looks good, Sakusa’s mind blanks, ugly piss blond hair taking on a honey sheen, eyes glowing the way predators see in the dark, lips curling in the shape of a smile to reveal the gleam of canines. Desire carves itself a home in his stomach, Fear trailing its claws down the ridges of his spine.

And God curses him here for even picking the fruit, Zeus laughs in his face for attempting to pry off the lid.

“Sure, why not?”

This is your own selfishness. You do not actually have the intention of helping him. You just want to satisfy your own needs, your own hunger, your own curiosities. There will be no reciprocating back, you will find what you seek, and then you will leave before the grave gets any deeper.

So you think. (the thought of rendering yourself vulnerable and bare leaves you with a reckless hunger.)

He is as foolish as Pandora. He shouldn’t have done this. Dinner is a quiet affair in the midst of a fairly obscure restaurant. It’s not any of the team’s usual after-work haunts as Atsumu did not offer any suggestions and Sakusa wanted to avoid an izakaya. They’re seated in the corner far from prying eyes, but Sakusa ventures everyone else is too absorbed in their own conversations to warrant glancing over at two generally well known professional athletes. If anything, they look like college students grabbing a bite, faces plenty young enough to still be considered undergrad.

The silence thickens as the seconds drag by, the pressure turning heavy and stifling enough to choke on. In hindsight, this was expected, this being the unwillingness to speak, this being a stilted version of supposed friends going out. Objectively, the food is good, but Sakusa is unable to taste anything, limbs on autopilot as he places bites in his mouth. His mind is far too preoccupied with the person sitting in front of him.

As far as liars go, Sakusa doesn’t think he’s met a bigger one than Atsumu. He doesn’t necessarily mean that Atsumu tells lies as in mouth forming hypocritical words, he just is. Atsumu is a liar in the way the sky is blue or green means go. It is easy to understand the kind of volleyball player Atsumu is, honest and true and diligent, the kind of player that drives others to reach the peak of excellence. It is less easy to understand the kind of person he is, mouth saying one thing and actions saying entirely different. Habits come in the form of sleazy smiles and trembling fingers. Sakusa has always kept these details to himself.

He sneaks glances as they eat. The setter’s face is composed, eyes betraying no emotion as he deftly scoops up rice with his chopsticks. A sliver of pink tongue peeks out every time, and Sakusa lies to himself he doesn’t want it down his throat.

“There a reason ya wanted ta have dinner with me, Omi-kun?” Atsumu asks offhandedly breaking the silence, and he reaches for a piece of tuna.

The nickname is ignored. Sakusa doesn’t answer right away, words scrambling as he figures out his response. “We should talk.”

Atsumu laughs dryly. “Rich, comin’ from ya.”

They do not look at each other. His world hasn’t quite ended just yet, so Sakusa is taking this as a win. “If you want to keep that shit to yourself all bottled up, by all means, be my guest. I won’t bring it up after this if you say so.”

“Ehhh, Omi-Omi, you’re gonna play therapist?” Sakusa can hear the amusement dripping silky smooth off Atsumu’s words.

He smiles thinly, “If that’s what you want.”

Their chopsticks click against one another as they reach for the same thing. Sakusa looks up to find Atsumu viewing him in what can only be considered a condescending manner. His eyes are narrowed in a way that suggests he’s more than a little ticked off. It’s a good expression, Sakusa likes it, he likes the way Atsumu is looking at him. In the gaping void he calls a stomach, Desire laughs at him. Fear sits with its weight comfortable on his neck, the anticipation outweighing anxiety, its mouth smirking against his ear.

“Then don’t ever bring this shit up again.” Atsumu flashes a smile at him, the one meant for cameras and annoying news reporters. A biting frustration ticks under Sakusa’s pulse. How stupid does Miya think he is, using that fake ass smile on him of all people.

Sakusa doesn’t respond. He just lets the conversation drift off. They’ve basically finished eating, something Sakusa is mildly thankful for. The silence is starting to nip at his edges, Atsumu’s indifferent demeanor turning the air frosty. Sakusa raises a hand beckoning the waiter and asks for the bill. He pays for the both of them. Atsumu makes no move to stop Sakusa.

For whatever reason, Atsumu doesn’t leave until Sakusa leaves. He could have left once he’d finished eating, but he chose to stay and wait for Sakusa to pay the bill. He waits for Sakusa to gather his things, and it is then Atsumu scoots his chair back to get up. He follows Sakusa out the door trailing just a few steps behind. Sakusa entertains the thought that Atsumu actually wants to be in his presence, but he kicks it to the side and curbstomps on it; it is much more likely Atsumu just wants to piss him off.

He blocks Atsumu from turning into the street once they’ve exited the building. Sakusa draws himself to his full height, fully intending to make use of the two inches he has over Atsumu. The blond has to shift back just slightly in order to look at Sakusa without tilting his head back. Sakusa pulls his mask down to reveal his smirk, and then he leans in, index finger trailing along the edge of Atsumu’s jawline. Sakusa can see the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Desire has his heart in a cage.

I think you look pretty when you cry, he breathes into Atsumu’s ear.

He stiffens under Sakusa’s touch, Sakusa’s words. It brings immense joy to the spiker.

You can feel the burn of his gaze as you walk off, limbs languid, legs stretching forward with ease with every step. Does he fill your cravings, Desire muses, your wanton needs? Fear no longer has its claws wrapped around your neck. Instead, it’s transformed into a reckless confidence, a surety in yourself that you can get him to break.

Do you like it when he cries, when he’s broken?

Then Fear returns, its presence suffocating, because you don’t like that thought, you don’t like what it reveals. Fuck Desire, it’s too strong for your liking. Curiosity ruined Eve, ruined Pandora. The pith of Desire will bring you to your wits end.

(sin is delicious.)

//

“I can’t tell if you’re out of your fucking mind, or if there’s actually some semblance of human feelings in that thing you call a heart.”

Kiyoomi grimaces. “You make me sound like a monster.”

“You are,” his cousin spits back quickly, staring at him in disbelief and disgust. Kiyoomi narrows his eyes. It’s a face fairly reminiscent. There’s someone else who wears that same expression, that same countenance. The face comes to his mind in the flash of a bored middle blocker from high school, one that shares the court with twin heads of blond and gray hair. Kiyoomi resigns himself. His punishment begins here, in the confines of his spacious kitchen and two glasses of tea, with scathing comments from his cousin and inklings of people that always, always come back to _him._ Kiyoomi would curse God here, but he’s sinned enough.

“Motoya,” he says, “stop spending so much time with Suna-san.”

The comment catches Motoya off guard, eyes widening in surprise for just a second. “What would you know about spending time with someone else?”

Kiyoomi toys with the idea of opening into this can of worms. There’s a gratification in getting under Motoya’s skin; he supposes this is how Atsumu feels with Osamu. There’s always the chance they end up laughing together at Motoya and Suna Rintarou. The idea of laughing together has Desire wringing his innards, guts spilling out between its claws. There’s an intimacy in sharing private details about people, and the thought of being intimate with Atsumu leaves Kiyoomi stricken with an insatiable thirst.

How apt, Atsumu being with reach but always pulling away at the last second. Your actions have consequences, Kiyoomi. You poked the bear, you ate the apple, you opened the box. Now, suffer, like Tantalus does in the deepest, darkest pits of hell.

“I had dinner with him.”

“You two ate a meal in each other’s presence, that’s not spending time together.” Motoya is beginning to look at him with what seems to be pity. Discomfort washes over Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi sneers at his cousin. “And you spend enough time with Suna-san to know the difference?”

“More time than you’ll ever know,” Motoya bites back without any real heat.

“Do you like him?”

Motoya throws him a withering look. “This isn’t about me, this is about you.”

“It was just a question,” Kiyoomi shrugs with a laugh.

“Fuck off.”

Kiyoomi clicks his tongue. “I hope you don’t kiss him with that mouth.”

Motoya flips him the bird in response. “Why did you even call me over?”

“Dunno, figured you could help me understand this shit with him.”

He makes a pained expression. “Kiyoomi, you don’t even know what you feel about Atsumu, much less know what to do about it.”

Kiyoomi sips from his glass. Motoya isn’t wrong, he really doesn’t know. There’s just something very aggravating about being called out for it coupled with the fact that Motoya is infinitely more put together than he is. It makes him feel kind of stupid like he’s doing something wrong, but to be fair, Kiyoomi’s inability to emotionally connect isn’t his fault. He prefers to situate the blame on his parents and them withdrawing from his life. Perhaps it’s a bit of a cop-out, except Kiyoomi doesn’t care though. This is just how he’s always worked.

That’s why your relationships never work, he bitterly thinks to himself.

“I really don’t have any advice for you, except to, I don’t know, maybe see a therapist?” At Kiyoomi’s look of exasperation, Motoya laughs. “Seriously though, there’s not much you can do here. Except to unpack your own feelings, something I don’t wanna be around for.”

“I don’t want you here for that either.”

“So mean, Kiyoomi,” Motoya says mockingly.

“You’re a shithead. No wonder Suna-san likes you.”

Motoya flushes but doesn’t deny it. Kiyoomi can only scowl at him.

“Get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

//

did you know suna is dating motoya

WHAT

WHAT THE FUCK

UR JOKING

unfortunately i’m not

he didn’t fuckin tell me or samu

im gonna

mother Fucker .

time to shit on them next game

don’t fuck up my tosses

i won’t.

don’t send me any half assed ones either

//

They’re professionals, this is their job. Even a jilt in their dynamic won’t stop them from absolutely crushing the competition.

The smug grin Sakusa sends Suna Rintarou as he spikes the game ending point courtesy of Atsumu’s toss is absolutely filthy, and the middle blocker is more than a little irked, eyes shrewd, mouth wry, when he fails to block the ball. The whistle blows once Sakusa falls back to the ground. Atsumu steps closer to stand by Sakusa. Across the court, on the other side of the net, Suna and Komori stand in defeat. Sakusa leers at them, and he doesn’t have to turn his head to know Atsumu is doing the same.

The four of them stare off before lining up for the post game handshake. Sakusa grips Suna’s hand in a particularly crushing grip, Do not fuck this up, he says. He makes a more pleasant face towards his cousin, who smiles just as amicably back.

“Omi-kun,” he hears Atsumu call out while walking back towards the locker room. “Wait fer me, will ya?”

The words are phrased as a question, but Atsumu doesn’t ask for things, he demands them. I’ll wait, he tells Atsumu and swings the door to the locker room, heading straight for the showers. Sakusa turns the water to ice cold, Desire withdrawing itself from climbing out of its home in his stomach, but even under the freezing chill, Sakusa can all too easily imagine the press of lips against his skin. He finishes up quickly, unwilling to feed into Desire any longer. It giggles into his ear, clasping hands with Fear.

“D’ya not have anythin’ else ta wear?” Atsumu remarks. Sakusa looks up from his phone. He’s out of the shower, evidently much hotter than Sakusa’s from the red tinge of his skin, and he’s wrapped his towel around his waist.

“What.”

“We’re goin’ clubbin’ ‘n ya can’t be seriously going in that. Well, dinner first, but th’ club after.”

Sakusa sighs. He is always asked the impossible, but he always delivers. “Let me stop by my place then.”

“Ya will be coming, right?”

“Only if you’re asking me, Miya,” Sakusa smoothly answers.

“Omi-Omi, darling, please come for me?” Atsumu immediately follows up with and runs a hand through his hair, a cheeky smile plastered on his face. What a lucky bastard, Sakusa thinks, to be carved the way Michelangelo lovingly touches chisel to stone. Water trickles down the hard planes of Atsumu’s body, a body that ripples with muscle, all of it dipping down into the v-line of his pelvis, lower half deftly hidden by the towel.

“Put on a shirt,” is all Sakusa says and exits the lockers.

What is this? A game, a trial? Some fucked up form of entertainment? Miya Atsumu who stares at him with half lidded eyes, tantalizing smirk on his face, pray tell, is this a game to you? Sakusa finds it rather shitty of Atsumu to do this whole flirting schtick with him especially when Atsumu shut him down effectively the last time they talked privately. He whispers to himself, but two can play this game.

It’s always been like this, Sakusa internally curses as he buttons a sheer black dress shirt. They are their own brand of asshole, personalities too harsh for anyone but the people closest to them. It has always been about a need to get under each other’s skin. Memories of youth camp filter through Sakusa’s mind as he tucks his shirt into a fitting pair of black slacks. The first year it was all about one-upping each other, the second year, Atsumu was paying a lot of attention to Kageyama, something that irritated Sakusa enough to spike tosses sent his way with more force than necessary, and their third year, they synced up all too well, Sakusa a little more pissed than he is moved at the near perfectness of Atsumu’s tosses.

It had pissed him off that he’d have to wait another four years before even getting the chance to think about hitting one of Atsumu’s sets. His college setter was good, but they were by no means _Atsumu._ There’s the barest strand of awareness in Sakusa that he knows he aimed for collegiate MVP in order to keep his name in contention, for Atsumu has his pick of spikers, all first division athletes, and despite his hatred for the blond, Sakusa is unable to deny the way his attention feels.

He stares at himself in the mirror, outfit subtly screaming sexy with a hint of slut, and Sakusa mentally berates himself for pathetically crying after Atsumu’s gaze this much. He stands there for a couple more seconds before caving and drawing thin black lines against his eyes. Sakusa pulls on his mask and grabs his keys before leaving, coat in arm.

For once, dinner is not at an izakaya; it’s slightly more posh, so Sakusa doesn’t feel too out of place in his getup. The team clinks their glasses (red wine, sparkling water for Sakusa, he prefers to be lucid, especially in this moment), the camera goes off and their necessary social media post quota is filled, courtesy of Inunaki.

The meal goes more or less like the usual, perhaps only less rowdy as they typically are. It’s quiet and clean, very much to Sakusa’s liking. He eats in moderation and refrains from partaking in the conversation, letting the others do the talking.

“Thinkin’ bout tonight’s conquests, Omi-kun?” comes Atsumu’s grating dialect.

No, Sakusa tells him. “How vulgar.”

“Aw, such a party pooper,” Atsumu mockingly returns. “Then, what about… yer type? Yer not gonna leave th’ club by yerself, are ya?”

Sakusa smiles humorlessly. “I like blonds who look pretty when they cry.”

“Flattery will get ya nowhere,” Atsumu scoffs. They do not speak again for the rest of dinner.

Their captain tells them to act responsibly to which Atsumu and Bokuto snicker, he tells them to shut up and that “these old men will be in the bar over, give us a call if you need a ride.” Thomas mutters something along the lines of how neither Meian nor Barnes are old but agrees anyway in order to appease them.

The club is relatively new with its opening only a few months ago. It’s definitely geared towards a higher class audience, everyone in attendance clearly having a hand in some level of wealth. There’s some shitty remix of a pop song blaring through the speakers, neon lights flashing to high hell. Sakusa smiles inwardly behind the mask, the tension starting to settle in. Desire is murky, Fear ten times more overwhelming with its hands clamped over his mouth.

Relax, Atsumu whispers straight into his ear. Sakusa does not.

He ends up hanging by the bar to watch over the drinks while the others go do whatever it is people do at clubs. Sakusa watches in both disgust and admiration at Hinata grinding on other people. The redhead’s time abroad certainly helped to further open his mindset, and Sakusa can’t help but find amusement in wondering how Kageyama would react to this. Atsumu and Bokuto seem to be having fun dancing with each other; Inunaki and Thomas are getting very handsy, Sakusa isn’t surprised, the sexual tension between those two was starting to get extremely uncomfortable.

“Ya even havin’ fun?” Atsumu has returned for his drink.

“Enough,” Sakusa answers.

The setter frowns. “That’s the fuckin’ problem, yer so goddamn uptight all th’ time. Ever thought of lettin’ it loose?”

Because he’s sitting down, Atsumu barely has the edge over him. On a whim, Sakusa hooks his fingers through Atsumu’s belt loops and pulls him closer. “Maybe if it was with you.”

Atsumu leers at him. “Like I fuckin’ said, flattery’ll get you nowhere. Fuck off, Sakusa.”

Sakusa glowers as he watches Atsumu’s figure recede into the crowd. He definitely does not seethe seeing the head of blond chatting it up with a tall figure, curly hair dark as night, in other words, a man who could easily pass as Sakusa. He can feel the gaping hunger in his stomach, Desire wailing as it painfully claws the sides of his body. Jealousy hits Sakusa in the way a knife enters the body and leaves, blood hot as it trickles down. The pain gives way to a startling clarity of wanting to get back at Atsumu.

Three shots of hard tequila and two of vodka later, Sakusa is smiling loopily at some faceless blond, giggling into his neck. The man’s face is a little scratchy with stubble, arms very firm. Unfortunately, his thighs aren’t up to Sakusa’s standards, but he’ll do. He has to. The alcohol clouds his mind, decisions absurd as hell. Sober Sakusa would never give his keys to a stranger and let them drive his car, but he’s not sober, he’s drunk off his ass. The stranger is definitely frisky, hands touching in places Sakusa would never let anyone touch, but in his drunken stupor, Sakusa supposes horniness is preferable to murder intent.

He ends up in the stranger’s bed, too incoherent to rattle off his own address. Sakusa is having a good time, as good of a time as jealousy makes it. He shuts his eyes the whole time with a different face in mind. He never got the man’s name, mouth forming three distinct syllables instead. They pass out.

Sakusa wakes restlessly, unable to sleep. It’s close to four in the morning, his head rages, but the need to leave is more pressing than any other matter. He rummages through the man’s cabinets, finds the ibuprofen and takes two pills before ditching. The stranger sleeps through it all. Sakusa hurriedly starts the engine of his car and gasses it towards home.

He remembers enough from last night. The stare Atsumu had given him as he left the club—Sakusa’s knuckles turn white against the steering wheel in remembrance—had felt like the touch of a flickering flame, hot and angry. It had burned, and Sakusa thinks he wants to try and feel Atsumu’s searing gaze on him once more.

Attraction is irrational, love a fool’s errand. There’s a probable truth to it in there somewhere in Aphrodite and Eros conducting these wreckages for storylines from behind the curtain, but romance is more akin to a sick joke than anything.

Sakusa no longer has any perception as to what myth he currently plays out. He’s bitten the apple, yet no one has kicked him out of the garden. He’s opened the box, but the only horrors that spring out are his own desires. In the chance this is the story of Eros and Psyche, Sakusa can only fear for the tasks designed necessary in fulfillment, but things like these do not go his way, things he cannot practice or polish till they shine, for things like these are left up to the Fates and their scissors, one snip in the thread at a time.

If Sakusa heaves into his toilet upon reaching home, no he does not. He does not toss last night’s outfit into a bag, never to be worn again. He does turn the water to scalding hot, rivulets trickling into the cracks of his image.

The mask of cold impassivity is chipped. Peel back the outermost skin, and stupidity knits together with yearning to make up the second layer of epidermis. Because at the heart of it all, you are just a boy drowning in his sins. Will you get on your knees and beg for your forgiveness, or will you look God in the eye and laugh?

(you choose to—)

//

“We hafta stop meetin’ like this.” Atsumu chuckles, but there is no humor to it. He’s leaning against the lockers, arms crossed against his torso.

Sakusa grimaces at the fact that they are the last two in the locker room. He doesn’t know how this happens or why it happens, just that he needs to go back to leaving as fast as possible. “Who said we’re meeting?”

“It was a joke, Omi-kun, but course ya wouldn’t understand, not when yer as prickly as a sea urchin.”

“Have you considered, you’re not funny?”

“Now ya wanna be a fuckin’ comedian?” Atsumu narrows his gaze, only a sliver of gold peeks out. “Real funny shit, Sakusa.”

He finds it oddly uncomfortable when Atsumu refers to him by last name. He quickens his pace of packing things up. “There a reason you cornered me, Miya? Spit it out already. What do you fucking want from me?”

You don’t understand why you hate him so, not when you also look at him like he is Apollo, god of all things radiant and beautiful. Except that is also why you hate him, inflated ego melting into the unattainable. You can look but you cannot touch, and the emptiness between your fingers brings pain like you have not felt before. Between your incapability to feed Desire and inability to quell Fear, chaos is born, and an untimely demise approaches.

“Nothin’, I just like seein’ ya get all hot ‘n bothered.” The bastard even has the audacity to smirk.

Sakusa reminds himself to breathe. “You like to play games, is that what this is? This is all just for your fun and amusement isn’t it, Miya—don’t look at me like that. You can’t fucking act like I’m at fault here.”

Atsumu’s lips no longer form his usual demeaning smirk. His lips press in a line, and Sakusa can see the tension in his jaw, but he refuses to cower at the beast. If he gets nipped, so be it.

“You started this game, Omi-kun,” Atsumu spits out, loathing filling his words, name used in contempt. The line between love and hate is a thin one, a line Sakusa finds himself teetering on. “That’s what I thought this was ta ya.”

Sakusa stares at him bitterly. “You are a piece of shit,” he says incredulously, “you’re so far up your own ass you can’t even see anything but your own ego. I’m surprised anyone’s stuck with you for so long.” The words are out of his mouth without thinking, venom surprising both himself and Atsumu. 

Fear cackles in his ear, croons a lullaby meant to scare young children into behaving, its mocking voice echoing into the recesses, oh Kiyoomi, there you go, you’ve done it, you’ve gone and fucked it all up, and that’s scary isn’t it, it’s terrifying. What’s it feel like, Fear asks him, all soft and sweet, to know you caused that pain?

Atsumu’s arms have fallen to his sides, hands clenched into fists. His eyes water. _Take it back,_ he threatens weakly, fucking take it back. The power balance shifts, and now Sakusa gets to see Atsumu quivering. There’s the barest of wobbles in his voice, and Desire sighs dreamily. So small, so pathetic, so easily picked up in his claws to be plucked apart limb by limb, stripping the flesh off the bone.

Sakusa does not take it back. The first tear falls down. Somewhere in the universe, a star is dying, dust scattering to be used up by other stars, but there’s only one star Sakusa ever thinks about: the one crumbling in front of him. Fear is choking him again, Desire’s morbid fascination with picking up the pieces inside the box known as Miya Atsumu too much for Sakusa to bear.

“See?” he says softly. “I told you, you look pretty when you cry.”

“I hate you.”

The resulting silence following the slam of the door is deafening. Sakusa hates it. It reminds him too much of the loneliness of childhood when he’d sit at the dining table all by himself, parents still at work, older sister drowning in her studies. Cursed child. He was never meant for this world. The concept of warmth is foreign to him.

Sakusa mulls over the words, pulling at his teeth. I hate you. Three little words. So different from I love you but the sentiment is there all the same. (I ~~love~~ ~~hate~~ you Atsumu.)

You are going to hell.

//

The way Desire hungers for volleyball is different from the way Desire hungers for Miya Atsumu. Volleyball is a meal you never tire of, every spike of the ball just as satisfying as the last. The intensive labour you put into practice tastes like sparkling water, flat and bland and boring and it hurts for some stupid reason, but winning takes its natural course much like the way humans worship the gods, and nymphs feed you grapes, bite sized pieces of ambrosia, nectar spilling from the lip of a glass.

The enigma of Miya Atsumu is more like breaking apart the inner workings of a clock and then trying to piece it all back together. The allure of it is much too interesting to pass over, a sweet fruity wine you cannot get enough of, drunk on the fresh air as you stand in the middle of a field of flowers, the sun gently kissing your face. Miya Atsumu with tears running down his face, lips trembling, the agony of broken spirit across his countenance is a sight you could only hope to ever replicate with delicate brush strokes dipped in thick paint.

You look beautiful when I break you, Kiyoomi breathes, running a shaky hand over the other man’s features, _so beautiful._

This was not the original intention, he just wanted to pick up the broken pieces and cradle them in his hands, possibly put them back together, but even as Kiyoomi subjects himself to steaming hot water, skin rubbed raw, pink blooming across, there’s no purification for him, no getting rid of this cursed affliction.

The sin of loving is from knowing. To love is to know, to know is to love. Intimacy is sacrilegious. Giving up the purity of your body and mind to be depraved by someone other than God is blasphemy. The touch of your lover on your skin etches onto you like ink, a permanence befalling you to be marked unfit for the gates of heaven, but that’s alright, you don’t mind, you like it, you like drowning, for sin marks you human.

Kiyoomi wants to know. Kiyoomi wants to love. Desire drools thinking about syrupy sweet sin trickling down. He’s a little more than disgusted with himself, the sensation of being tainted enveloping him in a film, but it’s exhilarating. Twenty three years of staying untouched, body a temple, only to be marred by the temptation that is Miya Atsumu.

Pink tongue around the porcelain that is his fingers, to trace along the edge of teeth only to prick himself on the point, drops of blood staining along lips, Kiyoomi is deranged for thinking he could tame a feral animal.

//

He chuckles. “Well I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Motoya tells him scathingly. “I think you should consider yourself lucky Osamu hasn’t killed you yet.”

“I should.”

“You should also apologize but you know that don’t you.”

“Yeah I know.”

“Kiyoomi you’re fucked up. Fix this before it gets any worse.”

The call ends. Kiyoomi’s “I know” goes unheard. He still doesn’t know how to apologize.

//

Neither Eve nor Pandora gave any thought towards the hundreds of billions of microscopic organisms they’d come into contact with when eating the apple or opening the box. Kiyoomi, however, has too many waking crises over it. Desire wants to touch, but Fear shrinks away. He’s a paradox, but just maybe, he can be like Psyche and look the monster in the eye.

Atsumu is a walking carrier of disease and filth, just like how that goddamn tongue of his refuses to stay inside his mouth, wet hands wiped with the edge of his shirt, no sense of cleanliness in sight. But of course, he proves Kiyoomi wrong because he’s a man of many multifacets. First impressions be damned, he seems to say, you don’t know me at all. Kiyoomi has never quite fully understood Atsumu, maybe that’s why he’s so appealing, and he wants to know.

He’s started and he can’t stop.

(you’re in too deep)

He’s not really a romantic except it sure does sound lovely to be able to say, “I’d learn to touch—for you.” It doesn’t come out that way though. It comes out in the form of making Atsumu shatter.

“Omi-Omi,” he greets, all silky smooth, a cunning line against the cut of his lips. “Let’s go.”

He follows for what other choice does he have, not when he’s been Asshole #1. Where to, he asks, and Atsumu glances at him displeased. “Just follow.”

“Sit,” Atsumu tells him, jerking his head in the direction of the seat across. Sakusa does not sit.

He chuckles. “Does it make ya uncomfertable? Y’can wipe it down. ‘m not punishin’ ya.”

Sakusa exhales a breath. The relief he feels once he’s cleaned the table and seat cannot be quantified with numbers. They’re situated in a little diner of sorts, possibly a cafe, tucked into a booth. Sakusa doesn’t have anything against the workers’ standards of cleanliness, he just happens to overthink and obsess.

“Yer an asshole, ya know that?” Atsumu says casually like Sakusa didn’t make him cry. “A really big one.”

The waitress comes by to take their orders. An iced mango peach tea for me and a cup of hojicha for him, Atsumu orders, leave the pot. She leaves, and Atsumu returns back to the conversation at hand.

“Ya don’t have anythin’ ta say?”

“You aren’t wrong. Did you want an apology?”

Atsumu frowns. “Do I? I mean, I think I would, ‘cause, y’know, that was a real dickhead move of ya ta say that shit, but I don’t think ya’d mean it.”

“And why would I not mean it, Miya? Do tell.” Sakusa feels the urge to jam his perfectly cut nails into his palm; he does not like where this is going.

“Ya wouldn’t mean it ‘cause people don’t mean anythin’ ta ya. Ya don’t get what it’s like ta love ‘n be loved, so feelin’s aren’t important. Even if ya did say sorry, you wouldn’t actually have felt bad for bein’ a dick.”

There’s the smallest note of pity in his voice. Sakusa can’t look at Atsumu, refuses to, so he lets his gaze drop into his lap. Their drinks come out. He hears Atsumu pour him a cup of tea, drink it, he says. The cup is hot against his fingers, he blows at the surface and takes a sip. The warmth embraces him, holds him, slowly making its way through his body. Atsumu orders a set of curry rice and a katsudon.

“Is this why you asked me to come?”

“I get that people consider the both of us jerks, but we’re not the same,” Atsumu says. “I’m not a prickly little ice prince, just a big bitch with an ego but there are lines I don’t cross. I dunno what the fuck it is that makes you wanna be a bigger bastard ta me, but—”

“Miya,” Sakusa cuts him off. “that wasn’t my intention.”

“Then what was.”

Sakusa sighs. “I don’t pity people because pity makes them feel worse. When someone isn’t well, all you should do is help them.”

“You wanted ta help.”

“Yes.”

The look on Atsumu’s face is skeptical. “When someone isn’t well,” he repeats in a mocking tone. “God, yer so full of shit.”

“You don’t fucking know me, Miya,” Sakusa tells him sullenly.

“And ya don’t know me either.”

“Why can’t I know you,” he retorts.

Atsumu does not have an answer. He looks into Sakusa’s eyes, thick brows furrowed in bitterness, the harsh line of his mouth set straight.

“You won’t let me know you. You don’t answer any of my questions. What the fuck am I supposed to do.”

A plate of curry and a bowl of katsudon is set down. Atsumu reaches for the katsudon. He snaps apart his chopsticks.

“Yer supposed to take a fuckin’ hint ‘n leave me alone.” Itadakimasu, he says before taking a bite.

Sakusa does not touch his plate of curry. “Okay,” he agrees.

Atsumu looks up, eyes flashing with annoyance. “Eat.”

He eats. The curry is good.

Atsumu pays, they leave, and thankfully no one cries.

Disappointment lingers.

(that wasn’t a date, but what the fuck is romance? Kiyoomi sure as hell doesn’t know)

//

They’re not really friends, just coworkers who work really well together. They’re plenty professional which is all that matters, right? As long as nothing affects how they play.

Give and take. Dish out one mean comment and get one right back. Balance.

Kiyoomi starts to want something else, something more. Are you quiet, Atsumu?

To be dead center in the calm, storm surging around, wind whipping against skin, Kiyoomi wants to know.

Peace of mind. Or so love is supposed to be.

//

Sakusa gives up on Atsumu.

Correction, he temporarily puts Atsumu to the side. The finality of “giving up” sits uncomfortably with him. Sakusa has never been one to leave things unfinished or half-assed. But the case of Miya Atsumu is probably better left alone. Something in his words, the shrink of pupils into narrow slits, something in Miya Atsumu’s body manner leaves Fear stinking up Sakusa’s senses, palms going clammy.

He supposes it’s been easier once he put Atsumu off. He can’t really stick to “out of sight out of mind” all that well when he sees Atsumu at every practice, but Sakusa stops putting effort into thinking about him and just focuses on volleyball.

Well, it _is_ easier. Sakusa’s priority of being at his best for volleyball consumes most of his time and energy. He stretches to keep limbs loose and revels in the slight burn when he slides down into the splits, leaning forward. Maybe he juts his ass out, maybe he doesn’t. He shifts into a forward split holding for twenty seconds and then switches to his other leg to repeat. After pulling his legs into the butterfly stretch, Sakusa deems himself good enough to start practice without fear of injuring any muscles.

Sakusa has never explicitly said he loves volleyball, but he supposes the act of continuing in college and going pro is a show of love in itself. He isn’t like the others who have nothing but pure adoration for the sport, for they live and breathe and eat volleyball. But Sakusa is a little bit of a volleyball-head anyway unwilling to leave things unfinished. He will see volleyball to its end whether that be in five, ten years. To let go would be wasteful of the effort he’s put in.

His shoes squeak on the court as he goes in for a run up. His arms are back, calves pushing up on the ground, the ball is there, the ball is _always_ there, and Sakusa snaps it with a flick of his wrist. It’s kind of disgusting how well they work together. The irony is not lost on Sakusa; there is something just really fucking hilarious about him being the one Atsumu turns to in the case of a bad set, and yet they can’t go two seconds off court without claws drawn and hackles raised.

“Nice spike, Omi-kun.”

He doesn’t bother deigning Atsumu a response.

Practice is good, and they win their game as expected. The commentators love to draw attention towards the players belonging to the monster generation, but Sakusa is tired of the spotlight being drawn to him. The team is not just him, Bokuto, Miya, and Hinata.

But the team is equally received in love at their fanmeets. The amount of people who come to get a signature is astounding. Sakusa dutifully signs whatever gets put in front of him. His fans specifically are quieter, or they’re just better at accommodating his prickly personality. There are quite a few kids with their parents, starry-eyed at the prospect of getting a signature from Sakusa Kiyoomi. The girls are nervous and shy when asking for his autograph. He politely declines their home baked creations but thanks them for their support and that he hopes to see them at their next game.

“Omi-kun, you’ll sweet talk a girl but won’t accept her gift? Rude.”

“I’m being cautious.”

Atsumu smirks and turns back to the girl in front of him. “Sorry ‘bout him, Omi-kun can be kind of an ass.”

She flushes. “Ah, Miya-senshuu! It’s fine, really.”

“Is it alright if I take them instead?”

The fan brightens and hands him a little gift bag stuffed with tissue paper. Atsumu smiles widely and flourishes his signature with an extra big heart. He waves her off to the next member of the team.

“Is that really necessary Miya?”

The setter looks like he was expecting Sakusa to say something. “We’re basically celebrities, Omi, ya gotta be nice to the fans.”

“Yes, you should have been nicer to me, Sakusa-senshuu.”

The pair turn to face the new voice. A man, blond, tall, unfortunately reminiscent of one Miya Atsumu.

“And who am I making this out to?”

“You don’t remember my name? How cold,” the man remarks.

Fear constricts around him making his palms sweat. Sakusa counts to five in his head to prevent himself from hyperventilating. The marker in his hand is definitely shaking.

“Your name, please.”

“Ah, that’s right, you weren’t thinking of me that night were you, Sakusa-senshuu? You were—”

“That’s enough,” Atsumu cuts the man off quietly. “If yer not here fer an autograph, leave. If ya continue to harass my spiker, I will call security.”

The man laughs. “Whatever,” he scoffs and disappears into the crowd.

“Ya good Omi-Omi?”

Atsumu is asking him, voice soft, eyes only on him. And Sakusa can pretend like they don’t hate each other for whatever stupid reason.

“No, I’m not good,” he answers truthfully, compelled to be honest under the scrutiny of amber gold.

Atsumu signals to one of the staff members and explains that Sakusa doesn’t feel too well and that he’ll be taking Sakusa home. They nod and Atsumu gets up from his seat.

“C’mon Omi-kun.”

“You… don’t have to.”

The setter smiles wryly. “Yer still shakin’ course I do.”

The staff member Atsumu spoke to announces that Sakusa-senshuu isn’t feeling well enough to continue which is regrettable but he wishes he could’ve met with all the fans today. Atsumu and Sakusa are ushered out of the room.

“Is yer stuff in the locker room?” Atsumu asks in a low tone as they speed walk to avoid anyone in the hallways.

Sakusa nods, bunching up the ends of his jacket in his palms.

Atsumu ends up opening the door for him, and he ducks through the doorway. His stuff has been packed already, but he reaches to pull out a spare mask. There isn’t one. Fear presses hard against his esophagus.

“Omi,” Miya says simply.

He whips his head around. Atsumu stands there with a mask in hand, still in its plastic packaging. Relief sinks into his muscles. Sakusa takes it, no one comments on the shake in his hands, and he loops it over his ears, fits it on his face. Atsumu holds another item in his other hand, a bottle of peach scented lotion.

“Your palms,” he asks.

Sakusa flips his hands over for his palms to face up. Atsumu lets a little bit of lotion fall into the center.

“They’re dry.”

He noticed, you notice. And that makes you cry, or at least, want to cry, just a little. He noticed, and you’ve been lying to yourself that Miya Atsumu is everything you hate because you can’t ignore the fact that he has a face mask ready for you, that he sanitizes his hands before handing you things, he holds the door for you, he pays attention to you to know your hands are dry, you can’t ignore it any longer. You can’t pretend like you hate him because he doesn’t fit the subconscious box fourteen year old you put him in.

(that explains it. explains why you’re so curious.)

Sakusa rubs his hands together. The peach scent isn’t too strong. In fact, he finds it pleasant, and it vaguely reminds him of the barely there fruity smell that comes from Atsumu after a shower.

“Let’s go. I’ll drive ya home.”

“You should go back to the fansign.”

“They’ll be fine without me, c’mon now.”

And Sakusa willingly steps into Atsumu’s car, the interior is clean, once again defying his expectations. Address Omi, Atsumu asks and hands his phone over while starting up the engine. Sakusa types in his apartment’s location and gives the phone back.

“Rich boy arentcha?” Miya says snidely, seeing the address. Sakusa doesn’t answer, but silence is something Atsumu is used to. He chuckles. “Teasin’ Omi, I’m teasing. Let’s get you home.”

The drive is quiet, only punctured with the sounds of the AI’s voice calling out directions and the muted humming from Atsumu. He doesn’t drive like a madman, doesn’t blast shitty pop music, he just drives like a normal person. It’s not what Sakusa was expecting, and there’s just the tiniest bit of disappointment.

Why? Why are you disappointed?

Are you disappointed you can’t push him further into a box, that you might actually be in love with him?

Desire is a fickle thing, enamored one moment and apathetic the next, but it’s never wanted anything more than Miya Atsumu. For that, Sakusa observes his profile, highlighted in the glow of sunlight. How handsome, Sakusa thinks, following along the slope of Atsumu’s nose down to his cupid's bow, the jut of his chin to the strong line of his jaw. Sakusa is tempted to reach out and touch Atsumu’s hair. He’d look good if he was platinum blond, Sakusa muses. Maybe he’ll tell him. Maybe.

Atsumu pulls into the garage parking lot. The engine is turned off. He gets out of the car and walks over to Sakusa’s side.

“I’ll walk ya up,” he says, opening the door. Sakusa shakes his head, you don’t have to.

Atsumu chuckles. “Omi, ‘m not leavin’ till I know yer good.”

Sakusa wordlessly concedes. Atsumu shuts the door behind him, the car chirps as it locks, and they walk in a quiet tandem. Atsumu starts reaching for the button to go up on the elevator.

“Ah, I don’t think so,” someone cuts in, stopping Atsumu.

He snatches his hand back and subtly moves to stand in front of Sakusa. “How the fuck did you get here.”

The obsessive “fan” is back. Lovely. The stranger shrugs nonchalant. “I followed you.”

“Miya,” Sakusa murmurs, barely tugging on the back of his jacket.

He slightly leans back, corner of his lip quirking up. Sakusa feels afraid.

“I suggest you get the fuck outta here,” Atsumu states.

“Or what?” the man mocks.

“I dunno what makes you think Omi-kun has any obligation ta answer you. Ya fucked once, it was a goddamn one night stand, nothin’ more. He doesn’t owe ya anything,” Atsumu spits out.

Peace of mind is nowhere to be found, the rising crescendo of waves storming Sakusa.

The crack of fist to face is loud, Atsumu stumbling back into Sakusa. “And you think he’ll fuck you instead?” the man sneers, shaking out his wrist, knuckles red.

Atsumu’s lip is bloody, red blooming along his chin. His eyebrows are furrowed, slits for eyes. “You punch like a fuckin’ pussy.”

Before Sakusa can stop him, Atsumu lunges forwards with a right hook. Sakusa watches in awe. Atsumu’s fist connects with the man’s left cheek, and the sheer force of it causes him to stagger a couple of steps backwards.

“He doesn’t owe you _shit._ Yer just some creepy ass entitled stalker,” Atsumu snarls.

(flutter)

He grabs the man’s shirt and yanks him close. Atsumu’s voice is dead serious when he says, “If I ever see you again, I’ll fuckin’ beat the shit out of you senseless. I don’t give a fuck what happens.”

Atsumu lets him go, and Sakusa can see a nasty bruise forming on the left side of the man’s face. Despite the glower in his eyes, he yields and turns to tuck tail. Atsumu watches him go, mouth a hard pressed line. Atsumu moves back once the figure recedes into the distance, the car speeding off.

“What?” he snaps when he catches Sakusa staring.

“You should dye your hair platinum blond,” Sakusa blurts out.

  
  


They’re standing as far apart from each other in the elevator as possible.

“Platinum blond, huh?” Atsumu asks, breaking the silence.

Sakusa shrinks into himself. “Shut up Miya.”

He laughs. Shifts closer almost imperceptibly. Sakusa scrunches his hands in his pocket even further. Desire languidly runs its claws along his inside walls.

When they reach Sakusa’s floor, Atsumu follows him to the door. Sakusa unlocks it, stands there for a few seconds, and with a sigh, he beckons Atsumu to come in. You need ice, he mumbles, pulling his mask down, as Atsumu hesitantly steps in.

He gives the setter a new pair of slippers, eyes catching how Atsumu carefully lines his shoes up after taking them off. It’s a sleek, modern apartment, definitely on the affluent side. It’s furnished with products probably from IKEA, and there are plants near the windows. Sakusa points to the kitchen table, Sit, he says. He gets out the first aid kit from the cupboard, and then he packs ice in a plastic bag to form a makeshift ice pack. Once the bag is wrapped in a paper towel, Sakusa hands it to Atsumu. He pulls up a chair to sit in front of Atsumu, the first aid kit on the table between them.

Atsumu rests an elbow on the table with the other hand pressing the ice pack against his face. He lets out a sigh of relief. The blood on his chin has dried, and Sakusa wipes it off some rubbing alcohol. Atsumu flinches at the sting. Don’t move, Sakusa tells him. He can feel Atsumu smile.

“Kinda ironic dontcha think, Omi-kun?”

Sakusa glares at him. “Don’t talk either.”

He doesn’t listen of course. Atsumu never makes sense to him. “I was supposed to be th’ one takin’ care of ya, but here we are. You cleaning up the blood on my face.”

Sakusa ignores him and once he deems Atsumu’s face clean, he swipes some ointment where the wound is. His face is a little swollen, but the ice should help.

“Do you hate me?” Sakusa asks out of the blue as he packs up the first aid kit. He asks it normally like one would ask for the weather. He gets up to put it back, not wanting to see Atsumu when he answers.

“I don’t,” is Atsumu’s reply. “I don’t hate you.”

The cupboard door shuts gently. Sakusa leans back against the counter, hands idly resting on the granite. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

Atsumu huffs. His face is leaned into the ice. “I don’t. I couldn’t.”

They don’t look at each other. Sakusa even turns his head to face the other way.

“Then why be a dick, and then act nice?”

“Anxiety is scary,” he says simply. “Besides, I should be the one asking you that.”

“And when was I a dick to you?” He can feel Atsumu’s stare burning into him. “Before all this shit,” he amends.

He shifts his gaze back to Atsumu sitting at his kitchen table. There’s something very natural about him there. Sakusa doesn’t feel afraid anymore, just tired. He wishes Atsumu could stay.

“Heh, maybe it wasn’t so much of you bein’ a dick. Just my own ego makin’ it seem like you were a dick.” Atsumu still doesn’t look at him. “Y’know how dumb fifteen year old boys are.”

He continues to talk without waiting for Sakusa to say anything. “Our first game was in high school, and you beat us from a six point deficit. I was crushed. I felt dumb ‘n shitty for lettin’ my confidence take over. It just hella sucked that ya saw me at my lowest, ‘n then ya had to walk in on me cryin’. I just didn’t believe you were bein’ honest.”

There he looks up from the tiled floor to Sakusa. “I don’t hate ya, Omi, I just… I just don’t understand ya.”

“I don’t understand you,” Sakusa returns simply. “You give off this image, and you prove me completely wrong.”

Atsumu huffs in laughter and sets the ice pack down. Fear makes his stomach flip flop around, but Desire forces things to stay still. What a precarious situation.

“Ya really think so Omi?” Atsumu coyly asks, leaning forward on the table.

“Would you like a drink?” Sakusa deflects and pushes off the counter with his hands. Atsumu sighs, displeased, leaning back in his chair. Sakusa sets down a cup of water for him without even regarding an answer.

Sakusa sits down again. “Sorry,” he starts off quietly, “for saying people leave you.”

“Yer not wrong,” Atsumu says with a chuckle. “It’s true.”

“I still… feel bad.”

“Naw, that’s alright now. I”ve been pretty dickish to ya too.”

Sakusa doesn’t have anything to say to that because it’s also true. They’ve been nothing but assholes to each other and for no reason at that either.

“Hey Omi, look at us. Bein’ adults ‘n shit talking out our feelings.”

“What adult? You’re a teenager in an adult man’s body,” Sakusa snarks.

Atsumu laughs. Desire blooms.

“I think we should talk about yer one night stand turned stalker.” Atsumu crosses his arms. “Sure does look a lot like someone we know.”

“That’s your ego speaking.”

Atsumu clicks his tongue at Sakusa. “You could do better than him. A lot better.”

“I could,” Sakusa agrees with a shrug. “Are you offering?”

The blond smiles, but Sakusa can see the blush on his cheeks. “So forward.”

“You saw where being indirect led me.”

“Not wrong, not wrong. Tell me, was it the blond hair? Or the arms? I know my thighs were better than his.”

Sakusa lets himself fully laugh. “I’m not stroking your ego any further.”

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu whines.

“You should really dye it platinum though.”

The night is burned through with peals of laughter, and he leaves with a permanent red flush. The apartment is quiet once he’s gone, the only signs of his presence are a plastic bag with melted iced water covered in a damp paper towel and the extra pair of slippers near the door. It’s a little funny to you because it was supposed to be _his_ pieces you were picking up, but of course, he never goes according to plan. Instead, he picks up your pieces, puts them back together.

There is nothing in the box you’ve opened that could terrify you. It is not like you released the four horsemen of the apocalypse into the world. You just ate an apple filled with endless love.

//

“We should try it. Datin’ I mean.”

“Really? Two assholes together.”

“Yeah but you’ll be _my_ asshole.”

“Tch. You bring out the worst in me.”

“I like the worst in you.”

  
  


//

He looks pretty when he cries, his lashes clumped with tears. His lips form the shape of your name like a prayer, and you lean down to feel him recite it, his arms clenched around your back.

You are nothing more than a boy, founded in your sins. Flesh is sweet, love is everlasting. You never stood a chance.

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudos and/or comment if you enjoyed it would mean the world to me thank you<3
> 
> my [twitter](https://twitter.com/rinniebear666)


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